


Paper and Ink

by Becky_Aitwo



Category: The Moving House Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 17:00:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5299211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becky_Aitwo/pseuds/Becky_Aitwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fanfiction based on the series "The Moving House" by Petitecreme.<br/>( http://petitecreme.storenvy.com/products/14131233-the-moving-house-bundle )</p>
<p>The story does not contain any spoilers for the series itself, but as it is based on the series I highly recommend you check it out if you like stories that involve witches. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paper and Ink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Petitecreme](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Petitecreme).



Paper and Ink  
*A Moving House Fanfiction

I live for books.

I couldn’t imagine life without them. My first memories are of turning pages pretending I could read them as someone told me the story trapped inside. 

My favourite thing in the world is a large leather chair I can curl into, a table with nibbles and a drink next to me and a good book I can get lost in (who needs TV when you have an imaginative book).

….so when that weird thing started to happen…

I wasn’t sure what to do. I mean it could just been so kind of weird prank. Then it happened again and again.

By the eighth time I knew I had to do something, no one was admitting to it and if it continued...UGH I didn’t want to even think about it!

The problem was I wasn’t sure how to fix it – when you’re sick you go to a doctor, when you have a problem with your studies you go to a teacher…my problem not so clear cut.

So….that’s why I am going to see a witch.

What’s with that look?  
I know I know – who believes in witches in this day and age? Trust me; I wouldn’t do this if I could think of an alternative.

She’s kind of a town legend, at least among the kids – anything becomes a legend to the kids around here after about 5 years or more – just long enough so the older kids can pass the stories down to the little ones.

You skin your knee playing – the witch did it.  
Sneeze three times for no reason and it’s the witch pinching your nose.  
Someone gets ill for ‘no reason’ the witch cursed them.

On the other hand, if your pet returns after it has been missing for days, the witch found him or her for you.  
If you were ill and suddenly got well out of the blue, the witch cured you.  
If you find a toy or money in the street, the witch left it for you.

The girls in class always say they will go get an Ouija board or a love potion from her because then it will really work. 

I guess it is only natural I would think she could solve my problem too. 

I leave the house before noon; I am not going to go at night – like some dumb idiot in a horror movie. I left a note to say where I had gone and when I expect to be home.

I have my mobile phone charged and nestled in my coat pocket. I make sure I have “it” with me (need evidence of my problem after all) and head to the forest.

The trees are sporting their autumn colours, blazing red, sunset oranges, lemon leaves rustle slightly. The walk is not difficult and everyone knows if you just head straight you will find the witch’s house (it works from wherever you enter – weird – I think people just say that to make her more mysterious).

It took me about just over 20 minutes, everyone has gone to the witch’s house at least once when they were little – it’s our local test of courage. Most of the kids don’t even go close enough to actually touch the house though.

It doesn’t look very ‘witchy’, no gothic towers and pointy turrets. It’s not next to an ancient graveyard. It doesn’t have creepy symbols or skulls outside.

It’s a rectangular house; white stone with tendrils of vines growing up and along the corners of the building (there’s a small tree growing happily on the side of roof). The roof is tiled and there’s a chimney and a small side shed built into it. It looks really cosy, I even notice a small oil fuelled lamp on a hook near the door (maybe so people can find their way to her at night? Or maybe it’s for when she wants to take a late stroll?)

I take a deep breath and rap my knuckles on the door. My heart starts hammering, I can’t help it, it’s like the little kid in me wants to run and hide behind the nearest tree before the witch can grab me and-

“Can I help you?”

I nearly jump out of my skin. She was standing in the doorway, watching me. I gulp, I swallow, but my words are stuck.

She’s young – I mean – not a kid and not my age, but she’s not silver haired and wrinkled like I expected. My cheeks are red. 

Her hair is long, a glossy black that reaches just past her shoulders. She is wearing a combination dress with what I think are dark jeggings or just thick tights and sensible walking boots for the woods.

I realise I haven’t spoken in a while and she is examining me as much as I am examining her. I clear my throat.

“Ma’am I have a problem that I think only you can fix and I came to ask for your help. Please.”

I do a small bow; glad my own hair is tied in a ponytail, so it doesn’t get all messy. She keeps looking at me as if trying to measure something I can’t see before she stands to one side and says “Come in.”

I step in; wipe my shoes consciously on the waiting mat before following her. The floor is made of stone, smooth and lined like bricks. I know because my gaze has shifted to the floor, watching my own feet as I hug my item and the plastic bag swings from my arm. I’m too nervous to look around.

She leads me into what I think is her kitchen. There are herbs hanging from the lower sections of the ceiling, shelves with bottles and books – did something just move inside that empty bottle?! No…no trick of the light, there is nothing inside but air.

“So what is your problem?” The witch said in a calm voice. Her tone is clear and she doesn’t have much of an accent, but then she seems to live alone, so maybe she didn’t develop one? Her eyes are looking directly at what I am hugging tightly.

I lay it on the table in front of her and she picks it up.

It’s a book. 

It’s a thick tome, leather bound, glided with gold. The pages are tinted a little yellow with age around the edges. It is…was one of my favourites “One Thousand and One Nights”.

She opens it….she turns gently page after page.

Each and every one of the pages is blank. She runs a finger a page as if it was written in Braille and she can read it somehow. She then closed it and examined the spine, even the title had disappeared.

“For the last eight nights….after I finish reading and go to sleep. I wake up in the morning and I find the book I was reading, wiped clean. No more words, the books just completely empty.”

“As if something has devoured the words from the pages.” The witch finished for me giving me a cool stare. I nodded numbly, how else could you describe it? Books containing stories, if they don’t have them any more, are akin to empty shells.

“Please is there any way you can help me?” 

There is a moment of silence, my nervousness levels started to increase. I start speaking again just to fill it. 

“I know you don’t accept….money…but I did bring some food….as a possible payment?”

I offer my plastic bag to her. Everyone says she doesn’t take money, she kind of works on some barter system – I think. 

All I could think of was food. I mean she lives alone, no one has ever seen her in town shopping or buying clothes, so I assume that she is a self-sufficient kind of person. I choose stuff that you didn’t need to microwave (I don’t think she bothers with electricity); I tried to be thoughtful about it.

I filled it with a few things. Bakery goods, like some muffins – the kind with fruits, some baking ingredients (flour, sugar, milk etc), vegetables and fruit, everything else seemed to look like you needed a microwave to cook it and offering a witch some potato chips didn’t feel right.

When she took it, I suddenly felt stupid. Giving a witch food to fix my weird problem? How could I think it would equal to the same thing?

“The solution to your problem may reveal something you may not wish to see or know. Is that something that you are prepared to accept?” 

Her eyes are like dark steel as if trying to hammer the point home, I have no idea what kind of thing I would “see”, but I know I can’t live happily if every book I read ends up becoming blank paper.

“I-I’m willing to accept what happens!”

Stupid words I am sure I will regret, saying things like that, in books never ends well, but what else can I say? I don’t know what I will learn, but I intend to face it.

The witch passes me back the bag. “My price will depend on the success of solving your problem. Please keep your items until then.”

So it is like a ‘no win, no fee’? I clutch the shopping bag. She stands and goes over to a drawer, before taking something out in a drawstring bag. She places it in my palm. It is not very heavy and the item inside is rectangular. 

“Place this inside the book after you finish reading it. It should protect the words.”

I wrap my fingers around the item, trying to treat it with utmost respect. “Don’t you want something for it?” It didn’t feel right taking something without giving something in return.

“No. Not at this moment.” She leads me to the doorway, a slender hand lightly resting between my shoulder blades as she guides me out, not forcefully. “If the problem continues, please return with my item tomorrow.”

I nod. I don’t trust my tongue. 

I guess I was pretty shell-shocked, I can’t even remember walking home. All I remember after I walked through the door was the heavy feel of the drawstring bag and the realisation I had left my book at the witch’s place.

I ate, I drank, and I put the food in my fridge so it wouldn’t spoil. I am nervous about what the price is going to be when it comes to it. Listen to me; I must really believe that the witch can do something.

Ugh, I should have asked for her name, not doing so was dumb; I can’t just call her the ‘witch’ all the time.

I go into the library, my dad’s pride and joy and my place of solace. I tap my fingers along the rows of books, before settling on a classic. It suited my mood, so I curled up in my chair, the drawstring bag in my lap and open it to the first poem.

‘Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,  
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—‘

My eyes grow heavy and I realise I am going to fall asleep. The words are blurring and I rub my eyes. I remember the bag, I open it. The item inside is cool to the touch. I pull it out.

It’s a metal bookmark. Dark blue, dotted with silver stars in the corners and from top to bottom it shows the phases of the moon, all in mirror-like silver. I rest it gently in the book and pray that it works.

The next morning…

I think everyone has had one of those mornings. I didn't want to leave the warm layers of my bed and when I did drag myself out, I felt as if my internal battery was drained. I was a zombie, groaning from room to room and it took a cold splash of water to wake me at least part of the way to normalcy.

Checking the book didn't occur to me until I was half-way through my cereal.

It was weird.

My first thought when I opened the book was 'it failed'. The first set of pages that went all the way up to the bookmark was as blank as in all the other books, but after the placement of the bookmark all the pages were untouched.

It's as if whatever or whoever was messing with my books hadn't been able to go past it, like a barrier or guardian 'you shall not pass' kind of thing.

I lifted the bookmark; it felt strangely warm for something that had sat in a book all night.

I was filled with a sudden compulsion. I read the next two pages and then placed the mark back in the exact same place as before.

Then I left the book and room alone.

THAT was the hard part. Leaving the room, pretending I wasn't waiting around for something to happen. I cleaned around the house; I made my lunch and dinner for later. I watched people passing by; I whistled tunes (badly) and even tapped my hands on my legs.

There were points where I literally considered watching paint dry as an excuse. I managed not to go in for an hour or two and then I just had to look.

This time the book was complete and utterly blank.

Whatever magic spell or charm the bookmark had I had broken it.

There was still plenty of daylight, so I returned the bookmark to its pouch and mentally prepared myself to go and see the witch once more.

A fine fog greeted me as I entered the wood; it wasn't thick and seemed content just to weave between the trees. My walk to the house was uneventful and when I got there, I caught her just as she was returning to the house. A wicker basket was in the crook of her arm filled with large mushrooms still coated in morning dew.

She let me in with out a word hanging her traveller’s cloak on a hook inside the house while I held her foraging basket gingerly.

I placed the pouch gently on the table. She didn't say anything; I guess one look at my face told her it had gone wrong.

She returned it to its drawer and opened another. This time the item was bigger and wrapped in a translucent cloth. She set it in the table before me like an offering. I reached over to touch it when she touched my hand.

"This item will stop what is happening, but once a truth is learned it cannot be unlearned. This is the final warning I will give you."

I gulp. I swallow and listen to my heartbeat ringing in my ears. Her words were not spoken menacingly, but something about it gave me chills.

"I understand." I replied. I couldn't help hearing the tremor in my voice.

She handed the item to me still wrapped and instructed me not to unwrap it until I started reading and to have it close to hand at the time.

I carried it as if it would shatter at the slightest jolt. I had a good idea what it was from the shape and the weight. When I got home I left it right next to my favourite reading chair so I wouldn't forget about it later (I do tend to forget about the rest of the world when I read).

I finished all my cleaning; sunset was painting my home in fading colours when I was done. I finished writing in my journal.

Then I chose a book and settled down to read cradled in soft leather. I remembered the item and very gently uncovered it. It was a mirror. It was oval, with a small connecting handle at the bottom so a person can hold it comfortably.

It is pure silver (or it looks it - it certainly feels heavier than glass), polished to such a perfect sheen that you can see your reflection. I think it must be an old mirror, it has no decoration around the oval 'glass', no maker's Mark and a mirror of solid metal of any kind would be far more expensive than a normal glass one.

I start to read, my mind happily sinking into world of the story, when out of the corner of my eye I notice a glow different from my reading light.  
It's the mirror. It has a halo of silvery light. My book rests on lap. I reach ove-

...  
...  
...

 

The witch walked calmly through the streets. The streetlights lit everything, wrecking her normal night vision. Humans raised lights to chase away the dark and bragged about overcoming their fear - yet all the light does it make it easier for the dark to 'hide' in plain sight.

That which exists in the dark does not necessarily fear light.

She navigated with purpose, never pausing to look at the houses to check if she had found the right one. She strolled as if she knew exactly where to go.

She stepped onto the path, grasses swished near her legs, the house was quiet and the door opened without any resistance. The house was vacant and lacked the ‘feeling of life’ a house had when occupied.

Unafraid the witch passed rooms that while clean could not hide signs of neglect, furniture frayed and discoloured, tables coated in dust. A kitchen dim, plates left to drain as if a meal had happened, but there was no sign the cupboards held any food. 

Finally she pushed open a door gently to the only source of light. A small oil lamp shone like a tiny sun, casting shadows on bookcases that stood against each wall. The witch ignored the shadows, stepping in and approaching the chair beside the lamp.

Within the huge chair was a figure partially curled up like a chick sleeping in a feathered nest. Long thin white hair cascaded past the shoulder to curl in the lap, the skin was the colour of parchment, their clothing was simple – properly once a dress of a single colour it was repaired with various patches of mismatched cloth.

The mirror was in the lap atop an open book, only reflecting the lamplight. The witch looked at the book, it still had words on the open page she could see until halfway down where the ink seemed to be fading to nothing.

It stopped half-way through a word.

“People believed once that the mirror could steal the soul.” The witch spoke quietly. “It could also reveal hidden truths, because it reflected only what was there, not what ‘we’ believe is there.”

The book’s spine contained two puncture wounds, just like the first book the witch had seen, just like all the other victims.

Perhaps if they had graced a human neck, they would have been recognised more quickly by others for what they were.

The vampire’s face was serene, dark eyes no long seeing. It looked peaceful if only faintly puzzled by what it must have seen its true reflection in the silver surface. Its lips were blue-black the colour of ink and its fangs were ebony. 

A feeder of stories, like vampires in human tales, it had fallen in love with its victims returning to the stories again and again, draining them dry and living the fantasies until perhaps it forgot what it was.

Perhaps it had believed so strongly, that it could fool humans into seeing its dream, living like one of them until it instinctively grew hungry.

Unable to understand the vampire nature in its human dream, it had gone to a witch, unaware that in asking the witch for aid, it was asking for its dream to be shattered.

The witch had tried to make it recognise its self; the bookmark had contained small mirrors of silver in the shapes of moons and stars. 

It would have seen its reflection for a brief moment – but once it realised it could just remove the bookmark, it continued as before and blocked whatever did not fit in its dream.

The witch noticed a small book, next to the vampire and opened it. It was a small handwritten journal of the “human” the vampire had been. The last entry mentioned the glowing mirror. The witch closed it and returned it to the vampire’s side.

“I came for my payment for your truth; I will take all your ‘victims’. The books you cared for so deeply, for the truth is a precious thing and so must be the price.”

~

There say there is a witch in the forest, but no one believes in witches any more. 

Still they say if you go past the witch’s house at night sometimes you can hear several things flying from the house into the sky. Some say they like wings or pages turning in the wind.

END

 

Comments  
I say I live for books; I dive from one world to the next. I laugh, I love, I sing, I cry in voices that are not mine as I live the lives of others.  
Sometimes I win and in others I fail, sometimes I am the hero, the victim or the villain. To some I only visit only, sometimes I return over and over never getting tired of slipping into the world’s skin.  
Ah yes, I truly am a vampire of paper and ink.


End file.
